Stages of Grief
by trisanamcgraw
Summary: PostHeart of Gold, Jayne and another character come to grips with what happened. Spoilers for Heart of Gold and one line from The Message.


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Author's Note: Not written for any LiveJournal challenges, the idea just popped into my head when watching the unaired episodes. Set directly after "Heart of Gold." SPOILERS FOR "HEART OF GOLD" AND ONE LINE IN "THE MESSAGE."

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tianna = oh, God (thanks to TaraLJC's Mandarin primer)

Stages of Grief

By Trisana McGraw

Petaline took over right where Nandi left off. Once all of Burgess' men were sent away, she began issuing orders without wavering; in the space of time between her son's birth and his father's death, she'd gone from a scared girl to a strong, hardened woman. 

Some girls began to clean up the damage inside and out, while the hired help offered to start the grisly job of picking out the bodies. Survivors were taken to an undamaged room in the back and treated. Once the bordello was a little cleaner, Shepherd Book said some words over the dead in one funeral; there wasn't time for individual ones. Directly following the service, Dr. Tam and some volunteers, including Helen, continued to care for the injured.

Out of the corner of her eye Helen saw Emma holding the hand of one of her close friends who had been crushed beneath a wall during the fight. A few beds down, Lucy was enthralling several girls and boys with her beautiful voice.

Helen finished re-dressing a boy's wound, and he smiled weakly at her in thanks as she wrapped up the remaining bandages. Standing, she started toward the supply closet.

She felt Jayne come up behind her – for his size, he was real quiet – and rest his hands possessively on her hips. "Hey," he rasped in her ear, making her wonder if he'd been drinking. She could hear his customary leer in his voice. "What do you say we go upstairs for a little fun?"

She sighed and turned to face him. "Jayne, we're short on helpers already; these people need me."

"C'mon," he wheedled, sounding like a child. "I just wanna . . ." He groaned in exasperation and looked at his boots. "Please?"

She frowned and set the bandages aside. "Jayne, what's wrong? You're actin' weird."

His playfulness was entirely gone. "It – Right now I just – I need to feel somethin' that's real." Grabbing her by the arms, he pulled her tightly against him. She could smell the drink on his breath and the powder from the guns he'd killed men with that morning. There was something desperate, something she'd never seen before, in his eyes. She started to protest, but she felt his length pressing against her leg, and he said, in barely above a whisper,"_Please, Helen_."

That should have been her first sign; he'd never called her by her name in the few days they'd known each other. Finally she swallowed and said, "All right, but give me a half-hour, `kay?" He nodded reluctantly and let her go.

The next twenty minutes or so she spent helping to bring in buckets of water for the wounded. Once that was taken care of, she slipped away.

Jayne was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, and they went up in silence to the room where they'd had fun romps before all the chaos, where he'd protected her during the attack. They undressed without speaking; then she followed his lead, getting under the covers.

He leaned over her, propped up on his elbows, but did nothing. For a few moments the only sound was their breathing. Jayne stared hard at her, his forehead slightly furrowed like he was trying to make sense of something. "You're real pretty," he finally murmured, worrying her even more.

"Jayne . . ." she started to say, but he shushed her and began kissing her neck. Still feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Helen nonetheless let him do as he pleased while she made the right sounds and movements.

When he looked up at her again he was panting, and his eyes were flat. He stroked her cheek with one finger, almost tenderly, before going on to the rest of her body.

The fun, no-strings-attached sex they'd had only a few nights ago was gone; she'd seen that the moment she'd looked into his eyes. She felt it now in his callused hands tightly gripping her hips and his muffled curses against her skin as she moved with him, trying to focus only on the sensations and not their cause.

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Tianna. Nandi was really dead. Helen had forced herself to not really believe it, making herself be numb even through the service, but there was no way she could deny it anymore. Things had changed at the Heart of Gold the moment their leader had fallen to the floor: each person had aged a little in the realization that any of them could have the same fate.

Even the ones who hadn't known Nandi that long had changed; even Jayne, who usually dealt death to others, was different. Helen felt as if she would burst with anger; she needed to attack something in her frustration, but she was helpless. 

If Nandi were still alive, she and Jayne wouldn't be so desperate for touch. If Nandi hadn't died, things wouldn't have become personal. If Nandi were here, there wouldn't be tears on Helen's face.

She let him take her over the edge with him, her eyes wet as he shuddered and went still, his face pressed against the pillow. Finally Jayne rolled onto his back, making a satisfied sound and closing his eyes. He reached out an arm to pull Helen over, but she slipped out of his grip and sat up on her side of the bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked after a couple of seconds, sitting up as well. Helen shook her head, but soon she felt his hand on her arm.

"Was I too rough?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

She shook her head and faced him, aware that her eyes were red and puffy. His expression was unreadable.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "It's nothin' that you did. I just . . . She's really gone." This brought a fresh wave of tears that she unsuccessfully attempted to hide.

When she chanced a look at him again, Jayne's expression was one of sympathy. She wanted to get dressed and flee the room, but he tugged her next to him with surprising gentleness. "It's okay," he soothed. "I . . . I understand."

He was telling the truth. The other night, when Helen had been on the verge of tears before the next morning's fight, he'd been irritated; back then he'd believed she'd had nothing to worry about. But now her worst nightmare had come true, and he couldn't fault her for crying. Feeling like he was getting to understand women a little, Jayne patted Helen's back – less awkwardly than he had last time – for a few minutes as she regained her composure.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the tears on her cheeks shining in the light from the window. "This ain't very professional, is it?"

"No," he answered, but he'd known that the moment they went upstairs. "Listen, our preacher said that everyone's got a different reaction to grief. Like me: when I see someone killed I wanna feel alive. You know, workin' out . . . or havin' a woman close."

Helen turned to stare at him, and he managed a small smile for her. "You're real sweet," she murmured, wiping her face with her hand.

"No, I ain't."

"Yeah, you are." She turned fully around so that she was sitting in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Now that you've helped me deal with my grief, let me help you with yours." His smile shifted into a leer as she wiggled in his lap, gaining a soft groan from him. "That is, if you're up to it?" she whispered in his ear, coy and playful again.

His hands dropped to her hips, and she saw a renewed fire in his eyes. "I surely am," he replied in a low voice, and Helen could feel the proof of his words.

She feigned wide-eyed surprise, making him laugh a little. "You got stamina."

The shadow crept over his face again, and he quietly replied, "Got a beating heart, is all."

Later, after they'd both satisfied their need for contact, Helen lay curled up against Jayne, her head on his shoulder as he aimlessly trailed his fingers through her long hair.

His radio, lying on the table next to them, crackled, and Jayne shifted to get it. Helen leaned back on the pillows as he sat up.

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"Jayne?" Zoë's voice came from the radio.

"I'm here," he said, and before Zoë answered he began to get up and pull his pants on, already knowing what she was going to say.

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"We need you back at the ship; we're gonna be lifting off soon."

"Gimme twenty minutes," Jayne answered, and he received an affirmative. Putting the radio aside, he dressed while Helen watched him.

"Um," he began when he noticed her eyes on him, "I didn't bring any money. . . ."

"There's no need," she said; she'd known that since he'd approached her in the hall. And anyway, they had done something of a trade: he'd made her feel safe, she'd made him feel alive.

"Yeah," he echoed uncomfortably. "Well, `bye." With that, he left, and Helen rolled onto her back, pulling up the covers. That was the way goodbyes had to be said: abrupt, so all ties were severed and the trade remained a business.

Only a few minutes passed before she began to get dressed again. Jayne had helped her to accept and move beyond all that had happened that day. Now, other people – those who hadn't been killed, who would live on and honor Nandi and the dead in their memories – needed her help.


End file.
